


Breaking the Ice

by beetle



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Post-Chosen, post-nfa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:16:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the slashthedrabble prompt, high.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking the Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All Joss's.  
> Notes: Set post-Chosen and post-NFA

  
“. . . asking him out for a beer to break the ice,” Dawn advises, thousands of miles worth of bad reception crackling and hissing between them. “Not in a date-y way. In a manly-guy way.”  
  
  
“But I don't know  _how_  to be a manly guy,” Andrew moans miserably, just as the call drops.  
  
  
“Ain't it the truth, Ruth. One side.” Spike shoulders by him to get into the fourth floor training area. Heads straight for the punching bags, a grim, tense set to his bare shoulders.  
  
  
“Ah! Greetings, Troubled Hero . . . you, uh, heard that?”  
  
  
Spike test-jabs the bag and snorts. “Voice like someone slaughtering a lamb by bloody inches, you have.” One-two punch. Muscles ripple. “Can hear you from across the bloody compound.” Shove. Dodge. Uppercut. “Now. There's some'd say you haven't a snowball's chance with him.” Spin-kick. “But you're not  _entirely_  hopeless. He likes 'em nerdy and waifish.” Elbow-jab. “'Spect you'll do as well as any to get him outta this bloody rut he's been in.”  
  
  
Andrew brightens a little. “I will?”  
  
  
Grunt. Repeating wrist-sweep. “'Course, you'll have to do better than bloody  _beer_  to sound him out.”  
  
  
“You mean, like . . . sangria?”  
  
  
The distinct non-sound of Spike rolling his eyes. “If I weren't the soul of kindness.” Kamikaze-kick. “I'd bitch-slap you.” Jab. “No,  _not_ sodding sangria.” A flurry of kicks and punches that probably don't have names. “He never lets his guard down anymore, not  _even_ dead-drunk. So if you  _really_  wanna break some ice . . . I can get you somethin'll do that, right enough.”  
  
  
“Um--”  
  
  
Spike glances over his shoulder, all dangerous, Cheshire Cat smile, filled with sharp teeth. “How much cash you got on you?”  
  
  
Hesitantly, Andrew answers, and Spike's smile gets even less reassuring. “That'll do.” The punching bag explodes from the force of a roundhouse kick, and Spike hitches up his sweatpants and moves on to the next bag, poking it playfully. “Come back in three hours with double that, and I'll have exactly what you need. Till then, sod off.”  
  
  
“Oh . . . kay. You know, Mr. Giles expressly forbade you to destroy anymore--see you in three hours!” Andrew sods off before he has to dodge another medicine ball.  
  


*

  
  
Four hours later, armed with what Spike has assured him will work far better than any amount of beer as regards the breaking of manly-guy ice, Andrew stares at the most intimidating door in all of England. Maybe in all the  _world._  
  
  
He's about to knock when the door swings open and, umbrella-ed and raincoat-ed--surprised, but not startled--Ama's Watcher, one Charles Gunn, smiles, and . . . it's sunshine.  _Has to be,_  since Andrew wants nothing more than to  _bask_.  
  
  
“Earth to Andy--” Charles puts a strong,  _manly_  hand on his shoulder and Andrew nearly dissolves. ”Hello?”  
  
  
“I brought you hashish!” he blurts out, presenting the smelly plastic bag and the ornate, ungainly hookah. . . .  
  
  
Andrew can only assume, after a full minute has passed and Charles is still laughing, that the ice has indeed been broken.  
  



End file.
